Staring At The Sun
by silver ruffian
Summary: Dean is becoming what he's always meant to be.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Staring At The Sun

Type: AU – very dark fic

Rating: R. Definitely R

Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest? Yep. It's very very mild, but it's there. Ye have been warned.)

Characters: evilDean, Sam, John, and Mary Winchester, mention of Bobby Singer, YED, hunters from the Vatican, Tessa the Reaper

Warnings: Weirdness, cursing, descriptions of physical torture, character death(s) and oh yes, the angst.

Timeline: AU 2nd Season, all the way up to "Heart". Hollywood Babylon, Folsom Prison Blues, What Is and What Should Never Be, and All Hell Breaks Loose (Parts 1 and 2) never happened.

Spoilers: In My Time of Dying, Heart

Dedication: To shaedowcat. I'm gonna erect a cat temple in your honor, darlin'!

A/N: I wanted to post this before Supernatural's season finale. I don't think Sam is the one that's gonna turn darkside. I think it's Dean, although the results won't be as drastic as they are in this story.

Summary: Dean is becoming what he was meant to be.

_**Ten**_

It goes on for nearly a week, and he can't understand it. It's not Bobby, and it couldn't be Sam. Dean can't see either one of them doing it, he just can't, so when he walks back into Bobby's house at dusk each day he keeps his mouth shut and he doesn't say a word.

And the next day it's like Christmas morning all over again, and not in a good way, either. Kinda par for the course for the Winchesters, but hell, even Christmas on the road with Dad wasn't this bad – most of the time. Dean's come to expect waking up at dawn with a knot in his stomach, going out to the Impala and finding something new that hadn't been there the day before.

Rebuilding the car helps occupy his time, keeps his mind carefully blank. He loses himself in the process; it's about the only thing in his screwed up life that he can put his hands on and actually fix. Everything else is so fucked up to hell...Dad's death, that destiny shit with Sam...

Right now, it's like that game he hated when he was a kid: one step forward, three steps back.

The first day there are dents in the trunk.

It looked like someone had taken a crowbar to the damn thing.

The next day, dents in one of the door panels.

The day after that the windshield was smashed all to hell.

On the third morning Dean just stands there, stares blankly at the damage. He puts one gloved hand on the Impala's roof, sways on his feet as he leans over. He closes his eyes as he puts his forehead to the cool metal. His pulse throbs heavily at both temples and for a moment he wonders if he's having a stroke.

For a moment he hopes he is.

He feels trapped inside his own skin, like a bug in a bottle. It's crazy, mental fucking crazy, but that's the only way he can even begin to describe it. Feels like he's pounding his fists against thick, clear plexiglass. It flexes, but it doesn't break. He curses and he screams, and he yells until his throat aches and his chest hurts and nobody hears a thing.

Watch out for Sammy, Dean…

Sure, Dad, you know I will…you're scaring me…

Don't be scared, Dean.

Dean raises up, gives a long, slow blink. He runs his left arm over his eyes, and his skin is wet when he pulls his arm away. Huh.

He looks down and the crowbar feels good and solid in his right hand.

The next day he finds dents in the roof.

_**Nine**_

Sometimes, in the quiet of the afternoon, when Bobby's away, gone into town for one damn thing or another, and Sam's inside the house, either on his laptop, or sleeping (and the kid's sleeping way too much lately), Dean sits cross legged on one of the rusted hulks out in the auto yard and stares up into the sky, at the sun.

As a kid he liked the color yellow. Well, he had, up until the time he saw his mother bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery.

Yellow is the color of his mother's hair.

Yellow is the color of the flames that licked and rolled over her body.

Yellow is the color of John Winchester's eyes in the backwoods cabin that night.

Yellow is the color of Dad's funeral pyre.

Dean hates the color yellow with a passion.

He sits there and the sunlight warms his skin. He rolls his tight, aching shoulders and he lifts his head and he stares straight into the sun, and he shouldn't be able to do that, and he never even thinks about the impossibility of the whole damned thing. The color fills him up. It holds him in place, quiets the screaming inside him.

Fingers lightly stroke the side of his face, and he relaxes even further. He knows his father's touch, recognizes John's broad fingers as they softly, gently card his short dark blonde hair. That was something the old man hadn't done since Dean was a very small kid. He'd killed his first fugly when he was nine, and after that there were a few affectionate touches, not that Dad had been all that touchy feely beforehand, anyway.

The skin around those yellow eyes crinkles slightly, and the sun's color deepens to dark gold when notDad smiles.

"My child, I have such plans for you," that deep velvet voice rumbles, and it sounds like Dad, and it doesn't, and Dean just doesn't care anymore.

_**Eight**_

He thinks about it all the time for a while. Thinks about how it would feel to slap the clip into his Colt, put the muzzle in his mouth and pull the trigger. It's not so much about dying, really. He doesn't even realize he'd be leaving Sam behind. There's a pressure building up underneath his skull that won't go away, and it nags at him. It needs to be released.

Dean cleans every weapon they have with care and patience, and he thinks about using every one of them on himself, every single time. He could have done it just as easily with his Bowie knife; slit the thin skin at the inside of the elbow, slit it deep and wide enough, with no chance of stopping the bleeding then.

Only amateurs go for the wrists. Cry for help, my ass.

_**Seven**_

His mother lies bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery and her pale, waxy face is a mask of horror and sorrow.

...sorry...Dean...I'm so sorry...

But he's only four years old, so small and helpless, and he can't do anything but stand there and stare up at her. He can't stop it, and he can't take it back.

Those nights Dean ducks his head and whimpers, rough and low, in his sleep. He tosses and turns in Sam's arms and Sam tightens his arms around him, just enough to let Dean know that he's still there. Sam rubs small comforting circles between Dean's shoulder blades with one hand and whispers softly to him, "I'm here, Dean. It'll be okay. I'm right here."

Sometimes Dean settles down. Sometimes, he doesn't.

Those nights are the worst.

_**Six**_

After Madison Sam seems different. Broken. He's quiet, too quiet, in a way he'd never been, even after Jessica, and Dad. Sam stares off into the distance like he sees something over and over again that he can never, ever forget.

Sam's stopped talking about hope.

Dean's glad about that, at least. He was tired of hearing about something he never really had anyway.

_**Five**_

It all goes straight to hell when they get caught at that truck stop outside Las Vegas, Nevada.

As they walk out of the diner something stings the front of Dean's shoulder. He looks down and sees a feather sticking out of the front of his jacket.

Damn pigeons. He tries to brush it away and his fingers don't work right and suddenly nothing does anymore and the ground comes up to meet him in a rush...

Dean wakes up with a splitting headache and double vision, unable to move. The men move around him as they tighten the restraints holding him in the chair. The red headed woman in the pearl grey pantsuit kneels in front of Dean, wets her thumb from that silver flask in her hand. She makes the sign of the cross on Dean's forehead, right between his eyes.

Nothing.

They stare at Dean in surprise, and despite the headache Dean stares right back.

They don't hide their faces, which is how Dean knows that he and Sam aren't meant to leave that place alive.

They speak Italian when they use their satellite phones. Dean doesn't know how he could understand, but he plays dumb, and they don't bother stepping into the other room.

He hears it all.

"It's them. The ones in the dreams." Grey Suit says huskily. Dean recognizes the tone of her voice. Hell yeah, he's sounded that way many times himself, after hunts that went well. "The boy shot that woman. And this other one…he's killed time and time again, in Mis-sou-ri, and O-re-gon." The names sound foreign in her mouth. "These two are monsters, and if they're not now, they soon will be."

Sam's bloodied, but defiant. He ignores the men as they move around him. Dean looks at Sam, and tells him with his eyes that it will all be okay.

Dean doesn't believe it either.

_**Four**_

They've done this sort of thing before. That much is obvious. They use good old fashioned brute force and blunt force trauma, just enough, applied with a skillful touch. They know all about which nerve endings in the body can be tweaked just enough with expert fingers.

There's a reason the soundproofing in the room is state of the art.

Sometimes there are drugs in what little food they're given, and more drugs in the water.

It's all for the Greater Good.

Many times Dean lies there, half-conscious, bleeding in so many places he can't count, hurting so much he can't feel any of it anymore, and that cold hard floor feels like a soft distant pillow against his back, and he can hear Sam whisper to him.

"It's okay, Dean. It'll be all right."

Sam shouldn't have to say that to him, and Dean hates himself for it.

_**Three**_

The gags go on when the bastards finish for the day or night. The gags come off when it's time to confess.

Sam and Dean never do.

Dean stares at Grey Suit with absolute hatred in his eyes. "You do not talk to one another," she says smugly. "You will talk to me. Confession is good for the soul."

Fuck you, Dean says with his eyes. He says it out loud as soon as the gag comes off.

They break two fingers on Dean's right hand.

The cell's pitch dark when the lights are out. Dean's chained to one wall, Sam to the other. The only light comes from the night vision surveillance camera set in the upper far corner. It's an unblinking red eye that sweeps the cell from one brother to the other in the dark.

Dean stares at the last place he saw Sam before the lights went out, and Sam stares right back at him. Sometimes, somehow, Dean sleeps. And the first thing he does when he wakes up is to look right at Sam.

After a while they lose track of the cycles of light and dark.

Dean curses. He curses whenever they touch him. He curses whenever they touch Sam. Dean curses inside his head as they pull him gasping and sobbing out of the water tank filled with holy water. He pulls breath into his lungs as soon as he's able, and he curses them all. He curses and lunges at them as far as the chains and the restraints will allow when they beat Sam, and even though Dean's gagged, his words are pretty clear.

He curses the Greater Good. He curses God.

The only one he doesn't curse is Sam.

_**Two**_

"Sam?"

Sam's heart beat grows slower. A beat, then a pause, and just when Dean thinks there won't be another one it comes, even slower than the one before.

Sam feebly pulls air in and out of his lungs the same way.

"Sam? Please, don't give up..."

"Dean...I...I can't..."

"Sam...don't leave me...please…"

"I can't stay, Dean. I...can't..."

Tessa comes into the room, and Dean bites back the growl-scream rising at the back of his throat. He curses instead. Sam looks up, dazed, and he doesn't struggle as Tessa takes him by his shoulders and helps him out of his body, to his feet. His body continues to breathe, light, shallow breaths.

Dean bristles as Tessa looks down on him with something like pity in her eyes. He doesn't need her pity. He needs Sam, and he and Sam need to be left the hell alone.

"You take him," Dean breathes, and he bares his teeth, his smile bright, terrible to see, "and I will hunt you down, bitch. I will kill you all."

Tessa kneels down in front of him, and Dean jerks back, growling, wild-eyed, when she tries to touch the side of his face. "It doesn't have to be like this, Dean," she says sadly.

"It does. It will be, if you take him."

"You can come with him, Dean. I'm here for you both."

"Leave us alone now, bitch. This is the only warning you get."

Tessa's face hardens. She stands up, steps back. "So be it."

Sam takes one last shuddering breath and is still.

Sam and Tessa disappear.

Dean doesn't scream out. He can't. He goes silent, the way he did years ago, when he was a kid, when Mary Winchester died.

He goes silent, and he watches the restraints burn and blacken as they fall off his wrists and ankles, and he silently kills every living thing in the house.

_**One **_

Grey Suit dies last. Dean pins her up against the wall, her stockinged feet barely touching the floor. She tries to spit in Dean's face, but she doesn't even have enough moisture left in her body for that. Dean burns her up, inch by agonizing inch. It takes hours, and when the bitch is ashes the only regret Dean has is that he can't resurrect her and do it all over again.

Some time later Dean sits on the floor cradling Sam's body in his arms. Something tickles at the back of his skull, insistently demanding his attention, but he doesn't turn around. There was a time he would have obeyed instantly, with all his heart. Not now, not after this.

"Come on, son," and the Demon's firm hand grips his right shoulder. "It's time to go."

Dean brushes his lips against Sam's cheek, puts the side of his face against the top of Sam's head. Sam's still warm, pliant, and Dean can pretend he's just sleeping, if only for a little while longer.

"No."

"W-what?"

"No."

"This isn't a request, Dean. Get up."

"You knew this would happen," Dean says softly. He stares at a space somewhere past Sam's feet. "You knew all along. You could've saved him. You could've."

"You're first born. My first born. It was you all along, don't you realize that?" Broad strong fingers grip Dean's right shoulder, and Dean doesn't move.

"I'm going to kill you all. Every last one of you," Dean says, and his voice is filled with a terrible calmness. A certainty. Energy gathers beneath his skin, crackles up to the surface. The hand on Dean's shoulder blackens up to the elbow. The fingers shrivel up, and bone melts away into nothing.

Wide-eyed with fear, the Demon curses and jerks back, cradling its host's damaged arm. "You can run and hide now," Dean drawls slowly. He shakes his head. "Won't make any difference where or how far. You're dead."

He adds insult to injury and doesn't even turn around as the thing goes away.

_**Zero**_

At approximately six thirteen that evening the house Sam Winchester died in goes up in a rolling fireball that soon spreads to the houses on either side. Gas lines underneath the houses ignite and soon the fire spreads half a city block wide.

Blocks away Dean stands in the crowd of gawkers and morbid curiosity seekers and watches the first responders go to work. News helicopters buzz overhead like annoying flies. He remembers that at one time, a lifetime ago, he wanted to be a firefighter.

Not anymore.

They'll put out my fire, he thinks to himself, then he shrugs.

I can always start more if I want.

Officer Peter Davidson, Las Vegas PD, has his hand on his belt as he approaches Dean from the side. He's seen that face somewhere before, those distinctive green eyes, that mouth. On-line database, wanted poster at the post office maybe. Oh, well. Won't hurt to pull this kid aside, run his ID, check him out.

Dean turns, and his stare freezes Davidson in his tracks.

Davidson struggles against the unseen pressure that holds him in place. His fingers twitch, and he's actually able to able to raise his hand high enough to brush against the grip of his service revolver.

Dean sighs and shakes his head. Davidson's body does a 180° turn from the neck down. His neck cracks, and his head's held firmly in place, facing front. The rest of Davidson's body faces backwards. Dean releases his hold and the cop's twisted body slumps bonelessly to the ground.

There's a five second beat, and then naturally, some of the sheep finally notice, and that's when the screaming starts.

Dean reaches out with his mind and stops the engine of one of the news helicopters buzzing around overhead. The pilot's good; he struggles with the controls and he nearly misses the crowd. Dean gives the copter a not so gentle nudge and it spirals down out of control into the people standing behind the barricades.

Dean walks away humming Metallica. The heat of the explosion warms his back, and the screams are deafening. Some of the survivors try to run past him and he nods to himself. They're jerked backwards, into the fire.

He thinks about the many times his family put their lives on the line to save people. They never got paid, and they never got thanked.

Oh, well. Life's a bitch.

Sometime during the night Dean puts Sam's body away for safekeeping. He's not about to bury him deep in the cold ground, and he can't bring himself to burn him. The preservation invocation comes easily to Dean in ancient words, older than Latin, and he stands there over Sam's body and shifts it to another plane of existence, somewhere, somewhen. He can always call it back. Perfectly preserved, frozen in time, just waiting for the day when Sam's spirit can occupy it again.

Murdered souls go to Heaven. Sam's there. So is Mary, and Jess. Dean might even get to see Grey Suit and her partners again, not that he wanted to do them any favors in the first place.

Dad's in Hell. A little side trip down there would be sweet.

He has places to go, people to see. He's a force of nature, something that shouldn't be, but is. He can do anything, go anywhere, and he knows it.

Heaven and Hell, and every point in between.

He has work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

This is the continuation of the AU verse _**Staring At The Sun.**_

Characters: evilDean Winchester, mention of Sam Winchester and Bobby Singer, the Dreamer, hunters from the Vatican, OC

Warnings: Weirdness, character death(s), some rough language, and oh yes, the angst.

Timeline: AU 2nd Season, all the way up to "Heart". Hollywood Babylon, Folsom Prison Blues, What Is and What Should Never Be, and All Hell Breaks Loose (Parts 1 and 2) never happened.

Dedication: To shaedowcat.

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or John or Mary. If you recognize 'em, they're Eric's creations; he's just lettin' me play with 'em.

A/N: I want to thank Catasauqua, We the Anonymous, Valtira, tvbatina, Ster1, HiddenHearts-xo, supernaturalfan0718 and incinera. I apologize for the delay in writing and updating this. RL has been a total bitch these last few months but thankfully things have quieted down. I hope you won't be disappointed with this update.

I give much credit to Catasauqua for mentioning Dean humming "Unforgiven" in the first part. When I wrote that part I couldn't remember the name of that song to save my life.

I did some research on the Vatican, but otherwise I totally made up the stuff about their defenses. The relics and that other stuff? I made it all up.

Summary: Dean is a vengeful god.

_**Staring At the Sun 'verse**_

_**By Silver Ruffian**_

_**Part Two**_

She stops, smooths her fingers thru her hair as she checks her reflection in the mirror in the hallway. She's worn this dress only once before. It's a beautiful black and purple flowered print, and it hugs her body, makes her look a little more grown-up. She can't be any more than fifteen, sixteen years old, tops. Skinny little waif of a thing, short blonde hair, wide brown eyes.

She wants to look nice for him. There's nothing wrong with _that_, is there?

She wishes she could have put a little more make-up on those faint scars around her eyes. She tried to claw them out years ago.

In a moment or two the vineyards will burn. The morning sky, sunny and cloudless, will darken from the smoke.

She feels a little sad about that. She spent many a bright afternoon outside, running and playing. It reminded her of her mother in the beginning, back on the farm, before she cut her shoulder length red hair and started wearing those grey pants suits.

It was a happier time, before the headaches and the dreams started, before Mama's job took her to Vatican City. Mama was kinder then, she smiled more often, and the Dreamer prefers to remember her that way.

She hurries to the second story window and pulls back the curtains.

He _comes_ just as she dreamed he would, on the road leading up to the house. A slight movement of superheated air, counterclockwise, that rotates slowly at first, then grows to the height of a man, spinning almost lazily in place.

Dean Winchester steps through, his boots still dusty from the coarse sandy Nevada soil, and he's even more beautiful than he was in her dreams. He's a fallen angel dressed in battered brown leather and faded blue jeans, gloriously, insanely beautiful.

Fire loves Dean as much as the camera ever did. It caresses his skin like a lover's tender kiss. Yellow flame flows out behind him in a blanket that covers everything.

Something kicks up the dirt around him as he walks towards the house. He doesn't pay it much attention. She hears a series of sharp popping sounds from down below.

Rinaldo, Carlo and the others are down below with their guns, crouched down inside the first floor windows, for all the good it was doing them. She told them he was coming. Wouldn't have made any difference, but she _did _warn them. They could have run away but they didn't, so she doesn't feel responsible.

Dean gestures with his right hand, and Carlo is yanked screaming high into the air. He gains speed as he goes, so fast he's a blur, and he bursts into flame as he flies over Dean's head.

Beautiful Dreamer sniffs the air a little, smells something sweet and smoky, like pork. She's smelled human flesh burning before. It doesn't bother her, although sometimes she thinks it should.

What's left of Carlo lands flaming in the vineyards half a mile down the road. The others follow, one after another, and the fire spreads rather quickly after that.

The Dreamer pauses on the stairs, waits for Dean to come inside. The heavy wooden front door is blasted off its hinges, slams into the far wall so hard it brings that wall crashing down.

It's exactly the way she dreamed it would be, and she hopes he understands that she really didn't mean him or Sam any harm. She always smiled whenever she saw the two of them in her dreams. The others didn't understand, didn't see them the way she did. There were reasons for what the boys did, but Mama and the other hunters didn't listen to her. They never did.

She cried the last time she saw Sam and Dean together. There was so much blood and pain and fear.

She didn't cry when she saw what Dean did to Grey Suit.

Dean meets her halfway, on the stairs. He stops and stares at her, and the expression on his face is unreadable.

They're standing in a bubble, but she can still breathe. Flames and superheated air swirl around them; the walls blacken and the curtains and the paintings curl into strips of smoke and flame. The windows blow outward into the courtyard, bright sprays of melted silver.

_Sam died because of you, _Dean whispers inside her head. The soft sound of his deep smooth voice makes her ears bleed.

She nods. _I know. I'm sorry._

_No. You're not. _

Her thin lips curve up in a small smile as Dean's hand brushes against the side of her face. She closes her eyes, leans into his touch. His fingers graze her cheekbones and her skin turns dry and brittle as old yellow newspaper. The wind rises and she's blown to ashes, a cloud of fine grey ash that swirls around her exposed skeleton, until even that blackens and crumbles, spinning away in the rising wind.

The air around Dean shimmers. He turns and pushes into St Peter's Square (Vatican City) in mid-stride. He's surrounded by a bubble of superheated air, and everything flammable around him burns. Several tourists standing and walking nearby erupt into flame, human candles of melting flesh below and hair burning brightly on top like candle wicks.

There isn't much screaming. You need air and breath in your lungs for that, and Dean's flame burns so brightly he doesn't leave much of either one.

A large flock of pigeons takes flight overhead, and each and every one of them bursts into flame. They spiral up into the bright sunlight, and fall back to earth a hailstorm of glowing embers, charred feathers and black ash. Cars and buildings ignite. People do, too.

The defenders of the Vatican come at Dean in waves. They die the same way.

The unarmed Swiss Guard, with their blue and orange striped ceremonial uniforms, fall back behind the papal gendarmes. At least, they try to. Dean shows them all the same mercy Sam got the day he died, which is to say none at all.

The Vatican hunters come last, armed with automatic weapons and special loads of holy water, consecrated iron, silver. They pull out all the stops, and the end result is the same: they all die, twisted, broken, and burning, and Dean doesn't even break stride as he walks towards St. Peter's Basilica.

A wall of flame devours everything behind him. The obselisk in the center of the square melts, a blackened stump pointing at the heavens. The Palace of the Holy Office, the Swiss Guard Barracks, the post office, the Belvedere Palace, the Petrine Museum, all of it, _everything_, feeds the flames.

The doors to the Basilica open and a group of robed priests come out, holding holy relics out in front of them like shields.

It's the most stupidly heroic thing Dean has ever seen in his life.

Dean recognizes some of the artifacts from books he'd read at Bobby Singer's place: the mummified hand of Saint Matteo, the right hand of God on earth. The skull of Saint Pietro, said to be proof against demons and unnatural beings. The priests stand there on the stone steps, blocking his path, and Dean stops, his head tilted slightly to one side.

Behind them he can sense people either huddled in corners, too terrified to move, or fleeing out the back doors of the building. It doesn't matter. None of it does.

The priests chant loudly in Latin, and Dean thinks of Sam. He sees Sammy pale and bleeding. He sees Sam lying still and lifeless in his arms.

Dean literally unzips the priests' skins and turns them inside out like old discarded clothing.

So much for that old time religion.

He stands there for a moment, listening to the panic all around him. Their minds are wide open to him, their fear sharp, loud and disjointed. They're calling him Lucifer. Shaitan, Son of the Morning, and he frowns. They've got it wrong, _all _wrong, as usual, and it irritates him.

The fire building behind him is hungry and impatient, and Dean can almost hear it sigh contentedly as he unleashes it, pushes it forward. A dome of superheated air and white hot flame rolls over the Basilica, through the Sacristry, the Palace of Justice, the railroad station, and beyond.

Dean waits.

_**000000**_

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.

Spoilers: Faith, In My Time of Dying

_**Staring At The Sun 'verse**_

_**Part Three**_

On the other side of the world Bobby Singer dreams of wide green eyes and ravenous white hot flame. Screams echo in his ears. He wakes up sick to his stomach with the bitter taste of fine grey ash in his mouth.

Sam Winchester is dead.

Bobby knows it in his gut, as surely as he knows his own name.

Sam's dead. Dean's out in the world alone, with only that hollow ache inside his soul to keep him company.

Bobby goes through his morning routine on automatic pilot. He gets up, fixes himself breakfast, feeds the dogs, and checks his email and his voicemail messages. He wonders why he hasn't heard from Sam or Dean lately, and then he stops himself.

He remembers the looks in both boys' eyes the day Dean came home from the hospital. Sam looked dazed. Open, raw. Wounded beyond belief.

Dean, though, Dean was different. Dean wore that that carefully blank mask of his, but Bobby could tell he was hurtin', hurtin' bad too, by the occasional flashes of pain and shadows in those green depths. There was a thunderstorm of wild emotion rolling and churning behind those eyes.

Sam was the only reason Dean kept it together. It was hard-wired into him, drilled into him relentlessly. Sometimes Bobby wanted to kick John's ass for that, wherever he was. You don't speak ill of the dead, but John Winchester could be a world class damned fool on occasion, which was why Bobby threatened to shoot him the last time he saw 'im alive at Bobby's place.

Dean was a good-hearted kid, both he and Sam were, on top of being two of the best young hunters Bobby had ever seen. At first, though, Bobby thought Dean's compulsion to look after Sammy was a good thing, something to help Dean keep his head above water, something to help soothe himself until time healed his wounds.

Later on Bobby realized he was dead wrong about that.

Nothing could have healed that boy. Dean was like a drowning swimmer grabbing onto whatever he could to keep his head above water.

Sam. John's funeral pyre. The wreck of the Impala.

Soon even the hunts weren't enough.

Bobby never mentioned it to anybody, but he'd walked up on Dean one day, out in the auto yard. He'd thought the kid was fixing the Impala, but on that day he stood back and watched as Dean beat the hell out of one of the door panels with the crowbar.

On the surface, it wasn't _that_ strange. Kinda was expected, y'know?

People have their own ways of expressing grief, of letting off steam. Bobby expected Dean to cry, to yell, to scream out a string of unbelievably foul curse words as he railed at the unfairness of it all.

Dean didn't make a sound.

Not one sound.

Bobby felt damned uncomfortable as he stood there in the shadows. It wasn't his nature to spy, to eavesdrop on something personal and somehow intimate like that, especially at a time like this, and he turned around and quietly went back to the house. He never mentioned what he saw to Dean. _Now_ he wishes he had, but _then_…

Bobby just stands there. He stares out his kitchen window at the yard, and his vision blurs and he tries to pretend that his face isn't wet.

_000000_

She floats in on thermals of superheated air and fine grey human ash, one wraith among thousands. Tessa's only one of the names she's had throughout the centuries, but she remembers them all. She's come to escort these souls into the afterlife, and none of the reapers even ask themselves why all this happened in the first place.

"Please…please help me…" one spirit calls out. It's a young woman, a tourist. She's disoriented, dazed, like most of them usually are. Tessa assumes the appearance of the young woman's favorite grandfather, and the illusion is perfect, right down to the silver hair and the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he was happy.

The spirit smiles, reaches out and takes the reaper's hand. The young woman settles down almost immediately, and Tessa smiles to herself. This transition will be smoother than most.

Fingers settle firmly around Tessa's throat and begin to squeeze. Hard.

That shouldn't be. Tessa's eyes widen in shock as the young woman's form fades out; she sees wide green eyes, faded jeans and brown leather.

"D-Dean?"

Dean nods as he idly runs his thumb over the ridge of her vocal cords. "Tessa."

She hisses with pain as he forces his way past her mental defenses and makes her change her appearance. Dean's mind-touch is deliberately heavy-handed. She's never felt pain before, not in her long existence. She sheds the grandfather façade and becomes young, female and rather cute, with short dark chin length hair. It's the way she looked in the hospital after the car crash, a year ago.

The way she looked when she took Sam the day before.

"You…you can't _do_ this…" She arches her back, tries to ghost out from underneath his grip. She can't.

Dean shrugs. "S'funny. _Everyone's _been telling me _that _lately."

"I can't tell you where Sam is." She lifts her chin defiantly. "I won't."

"Oh, I already know where Sam is," Dean drawls almost lazily. "_You're_ the one I want."

"Dean, please…This isn't you." Dean laughs, bares his teeth at her. "You weren't like this before. You were a good man, a decent man…"

Everything around them grows quiet.

The reapers surround them in a wide circle. A hush falls over what was left of Vatican City. Even the souls of the dead fall silent.

Dean allows himself a slight smile. Reapers are supposed to be neutral. Neither good nor evil. They don't take sides.

Until now.

"This is between me and this bitch," Dean's voice carries well over the crackle of the flames. "It isn't your problem unless you make it your problem."

They make it their problem.

They come at him from all sides, slam into him from every direction. Dean manages to stay on his feet, but he grows weak each time they touch him. He doesn't remember when he let go of Tessa's throat. His hand is suddenly empty and she stands nose to nose with him. She strokes the side of his face, and Dean's knees buckle. His eyes turn milky white, and for a moment he's back outside Roy LaGrange's revival tent, dying as the reaper's touch puts him down on his knees.

The reapers crowd around him, they're all over him. They're draining the life right out of him. He's so tired and weak. A sharp pain lances the space between his eyes. His vision blurs and when it clears he can only see John, Sam, and Mary.

Sam's smile is sad, pensive. "Hey, Dean."

"S - Sam?"

"Dude, I've been waiting for you. Come on, Dean. Come home with me."

Dean shakes his head, his milky white eyes wild, unfocused. "No…you're not Sam. Damn you, you're not ---"

"Dean, please---"

"This isn't real. None of this is real…." They press into him even further, and he weakens. His skin feels clammy; his arms and legs are so cold he's lost al feeling in his fingers and toes. It's easier to stop struggling. Easier not to fight.

Two of the others look like John. And Mary.

"Dean, it's all right. It's okay. Time for you to rest."

"Son…" notJohn rumbles.

"You're not my Dad." For a split second he sees them as they really are, pale wraiths in tattered burial cloth. "You're not." Dean no longer struggles against the hands that hold him. He doesn't even flinch as the one that looks like Mary Winchester brushes her lips soft against his forehead.

"That's better. Much better. My poor boy," she says softly into his ear. "It's time for you to stop this. Time for you to rest."

He's only human, after all. Mere flesh and blood, despite everything he's done so far.

Tessa as Sam cups Dean's face in her hands as he slumps forward. She gently lifts his head up and he stares at her dully as his heart slows down. His skin pales, and his breathing slows, just like Sam's did.

He can't maintain the fire.

It whimpers as it dies out completely all around them.

Dean dies a few moments later.

They hold him until the last breath leaves his body. Until his heart beats its last.

000000

A nun and a priest stand on a hillside overlooking what used to be Vatican City. They're not dead yet, but they will be when Azazel and Beelzeboul leave their bodies. The priest is tall, silver-haired and distinguished-looking.

"Well," Beelzeboul says dryly. "_That_ went well. Your boy had talent."

Azazel hates the way the woman's body feels. He's occupied females before, but he feels out-of-balance this time. Awkward. It's not something he's used to. Azazel opens his mouth to say something and none of that suddenly matters as intense bright light flares in the center of what used to be Vatican City.

The roar of the flame sounds like the voice of God. Down below Tessa has just enough time to think to herself ---

_This can't be happening. It can't--_

She knows it sounds stupid, but it's all she can think of as she dissolves into nothingness.

Up on the hill Beelzeboul and Azazel watch in silence as Dean Winchester walks alone out of the flaming ruins. The fire twists around him as he fades out into thin air.

Azazel feels a pang of fear at the sight of the boy, then relief and a weird sense of pride as Dean leaves. Beelzeboul's expression is unreadable. They both stand there silently for a moment, as they take it all in. Vatican City is a black, smoking scar. Nothing survived, not even the souls of those who died there.

Beelzeboul sighs. "I'm not sure the others want to clean up your mess."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying there's talk that this is all your fault. You knew how the eldest felt about his brother. You knew. Why didn't you keep the younger one alive, too?"

Azazel bristles. He's not used to being second guessed or questioned, and he doesn't like it one damned bit. "It didn't seem…important at the time."

"The only salvageable part of this mess is that we have the father. That also makes us a target. We'll clean up your mess, Azazel. You will owe us, of course, but we'll clean it up for you. And who knows, your boy there might be the next big thing."

"He's _my_ first born. _Mine_."

Beelzeboul smiles. "What's yours is _ours_ from now on, Azazel." "You'd do well to remember that."

**00000**

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Whoa, I do apologize for the lateness in updating this story. Italics indicates flashbacks. This story does contain some descriptions of the physical aftermath of torture. Nothing really graphic, but it _is_ there. Just thought I'd warn you.

Disclaimer: Don't own Sam_ or_ Dean, darn it. 

_**Staring At The Sun, part 4**_

Heaven looks just like Palo Alto, California.

Sam falls into his routine pretty quickly. He attends Stanford during the day, and he takes care of all the mundane details: books, class schedules, work-study program. He spends his nights with Jess, and in the morning he sees her off as they both go their own separate ways. Jess bakes chocolate chip cookies from scratch, and slips notes (I ♥ you) in his pockets and his book bag. 

In the evenings the apartment is cluttered with books, homework and pizza, sometimes Chinese take-out when they've both got way too much to do. Going to bed with Jess is a glorious, welcome release just like it always has been. Sam loves and adores her, and she loves him right back. 

"_It's them. The ones in the dreams…"_

In the morning Sam can't remember what he dreamed about, or if he even dreamed anything at all. It's a faint echo that sits just on the distant edge of his memory, easily dismissed and readily forgotten, a fleeting glimpse of a shadow seen out of the corner of his eye.

"_S-Sammy...don't leave me...pl-please, don't leave me…"_

He rolls out of bed in the morning and then it's the usual hustle and bustle. Get ready for the day, don't wanna be late for class. Sam immerses himself in the constant motion. It's normal, and he takes to it readily, no questions asked. 

One night he dreams of needles and blood, numbness and pain.

The next morning he wakes up and he's lost feeling in his left hand. Jess is concerned about him and she stays home with him, even though he tells her that he's _fine, just fine. Must've slept wrong or something, pinched a nerve in my neck._

It takes Sam an entire day to recover. 

That night he dreams of pitch darkness and a single red eye that glows in the darkness. 

"_It's okay, Dean. It's all right."_

Sam's throat is dry and sore the next morning. He can taste cloth fibers in his mouth.

_You do not talk to one another. You will talk to me. _

Sam moves a little slower the day after that. Feels like he's cracked all his ribs on his right side. It's a sharp pain that slows him down for the day. He sees the worry in Jess' eyes, but he won't let on what's happening because he doesn't even know himself.

That night Sam dreams he nearly drowns in a vat of water. Hands push his head underneath the water and hold him there. His lungs burn white hot as he struggles to breathe. He cracks his knees hard up against the side of the tub trying to back away and the water is so cold his eyes go numb. 

He sees crosses engraved in the metal sides of the tub. 

_Confession is good for the soul. _

That redheaded woman in the grey pants suit has the coldest eyes Sam has ever seen in a human. 

The sun rises and sets during the next several days and Sam has a hard time remembering what day it is. Food doesn't taste the same as it once did. He feels spaced out, disconnected from things. His body aches. 

That wound in his right side looks like a stab wound, but Sam can't remember how he got it. 

It disappears later on that same day.

He loses the sight in his left eye one morning but he doesn't tell Jess. He cuts class instead and sits in the library. He keeps an open book on his lap. His shoulders ache, then his legs and his chest. He dully wonders what the hell is going on.

Sam doesn't move until he can read the pages again.

Later he puts up a good front, smiles weakly and mumbles something about the flu when Jess sits down beside him on the bed and brushes his hair away from his forehead. 

He flinches when she reaches out to touch him, and he doesn't know why.

She's worried about him. He sees it in her eyes. 

That night it all goes straight to hell. 

"_Sam? Please, don't give up..."_

_He's tired, so damn tired…_

"_Dean...I...I can't..."_

"_S-Sammy...don't leave me...pl-please don't leave me…"_

"_I can't stay, Dean. I...can't..."_

_When Tessa comes into the room and lifts him up out of his body, it's a sweet relief._

"_You take him," Dean breathes, and he bares his teeth, his smile bright, terrible to see, "and I will hunt you down, bitch. I will kill you all."_

"_Come with me, Dean," Sam wants to say. "We can't stay here. They don't want us here." _

_Tessa kneels down in front of him and Dean jerks back, growling, wild-eyed, when she tries to touch the side of his face. "It doesn't have to be like this, Dean," she says sadly._

"_It does. It will be, if you take him."_

"_You can come with him, Dean. I'm here for you both."_

"_Leave us alone now, bitch. This is the only warning you get."_

_Tessa's face hardens. She stands up, steps back. "So be it." _

Sam takes one last shuddering breath and jerks awake with a groan.

He sees leather bound books all around him, all neatly shelved, one after another. Long wooden tables, green shaded lamps and chairs. 

_Must've fallen asleep in the library,_ Sam thinks dazedly to himself. _Have to get home now…Jess…_

He's awkward and fumbles around as he gathers up his laptop from the floor next to him, his books off the table in front of him. Sam's halfway up when this deep rolling voice stops him.

"Samuel Winchester. Sit back down, son." 

Sam stops and looks up into a pair of mild brown eyes. 

"I think it's time we talked."

Sam sits back down in the chair with a thump. Hard.

He remembers. He remembers it _all_. 

Dad dying.

Life on the road.

_Dean._

Sam sees Dean standing defiantly in the middle of St. Peter's Square. Dean is surrounded by flames, inhumanly beautiful, a vengeful angel fallen to earth. 

_I died,_ Sam thinks. _They killed me._

It hits him then. He _knows_ he's crossed over. He _knows_ this is the afterlife. 

The only thing he didn't know is that apparently God looks a lot like James Earl Jones. 

_**000000**_

_**Lawrence, Kansas**_

He could go inside, but he doesn't want to.

Dean stands there in the afternoon sunlight and he stares at the house. White frame, and there's that big ol' tree in the front yard. Kids' toys --- a Big Wheel, one of those molded red plastic wagons on the grass in the front. 

They rebuilt the place after the fire. Did a damn good job, too. Looking at it you couldn't really tell this was where it all began, and Dean feels disconnected somehow. It's not his life, wasn't meant to be, hadn't been, not for the last twenty three years, at least.

There are people living there now. Jenny's the mother, Sari's the little girl. Ritchie's the baby. A boy. 

Several years ago Sam had a vision they were all in danger, and he and Sam came back to Lawrence, even though Dean had sworn he'd never set foot in that town ever again. This was the last place he saw his Mom. The very last place he saw Mary Winchester, as she faced down that damned poltergeist that was trying to kill her boys.

The power inside him stretches out underneath his skin like a half-sleepy cat. It wants _out_. 

Dean looks down and the flames around his right hand dance silently over his skin, a soft yellow, faintly flickering corona of light. 

The front door opens and Jenny comes out. Sari has her little brother by the hand and they follow Jenny to the car. Dean stands there across the street blinking slowly underneath the bright sunlight. 

They don't seem human to him anymore, but they didn't have anything to do with Sam dying, so Dean doesn't hate them. Sam was alive when Dean first met them, so that's a _huge_ point in their favor. 

Dean shakes his head_ no_, and the flames wink out.

No burning today. Not _here_, anyway. There's a big wide world out here, plenty of other places to choose.

"Good morning, sir."

The tone is reverent, polite, deferential. There's a weird overlay to the voice. It's many different voices speaking the same words at the same time. 

Dean glances to his left. Black dude. Blue jeans and a purple t shirt with the inscription _Brady's Goodnite Inn._ Young. Head full of waist length locked hair. He's tall, about as tall as Sam, but Dean's _never_ been intimidated by that height crap. 

"Uh huh." 

"You are the one we've been waiting for, all these many years."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You been watching the Matrix too many times, pal. I'm not the one." He sees shifting images in, over and around the dude's form: female, male, young, old, blue eyes, brown eyes. Every skin color, every eye color, every human shape there is. They all occupy the same space. 

There goes the neighborhood. Freaks are coming out of the woodwork now and it feels too crowded here by half now. On the one hand, Dean keeps his game face on as he tries not to stare. On the other hand he feels bored, like he's seen this before but he can't quite remember where. 

Dean feels something he can't quite identify. It's not fear, just a realization. 

_I am Legion, and we are many…_

Dean turns to leave. He's not in a sharing and caring mood right now. 

"They tortured you and your brother, Samuel. I believe they regard that as purification. Samuel died. Anyone who has a heart regrets that. We're glad to see that you fully recovered, sir." The dude actually puts a hand over his hand, closes his eyes and bows forward slightly. He holds that pose until Dean turns to face him again. 

Despite himself, Dean stops dead in his tracks. When he turns back around to face Legion there's a hard, sharp glint in Dean's eyes. What's this _sir_ shit?

"You achieved your full potential too late to save him and you struck down the agents of the Greater Good. The yellow eyed one might have started all this, but you chose your own path."

"Figured that out all by yourself, did you?" Dean growls.

"Consider this a, how do you say?" The shifting images merge into the black dude and he smiles, all warm and friendly. "A…a heads up. Not everyone out here is against you."

Dean stares at him hard for a moment, and when he smiles it's tight and doesn't reach his eyes. "I can take care of this myself, thanks."

"As you wish." Another deep bow from the waist. Dean scowls at him. 

_Crazy bastards,_ Dean thinks, and then he's gone, he's out of there. He doesn't have to eat anymore, but right now he feels the need for a drink. A cold beer would taste really good right about now.

_**000000**_

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**_ Yep, another update. Yeah, I know, I let this one lanquish way too long. Gave myself ten lashes with a wet noodle and moved on.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Dean, Sam, or Casey. Eric does, darn it.

* * *

_**Staring At The Sun 'verse**_

_**Part 5 **_

Sam always wondered what he'd do when he finally met his Maker.

_Now he knows._ Bitch at him, just like he did with Dad. Sam's chin juts out and his shoulders square up in that same defiant way he always took on when he argued with John.

There was a time when Sam wouldn't have reacted like that. There was a time he prayed every day, a time when he worshipped. A time he _believed_, with all his heart. Not anymore.

He's seen too many good people screwed over, with no rhyme or reason to it all.

Jess. Madison. Dean. Too many unanswered prayers. Too much random evil. His faith is stretched out paper thin. It's practically non-existent.

"He's my brother," Sam says sharply. "I won't go against him, no matter what he's done."

God is unperturbed. "I don't expect you to, Samuel. I wasn't going to ask you that."

"You weren't?" Sam snort-chuckles. "Then why am I here? What's the point of all this?"

"You're here because you deserve to be here."

"And Dean doesn't? After all the good he did, all the evil he hunted down and the people he saved, don't sit there and tell me that my brother didn't deserve to be here too."

"I didn't say that. It was your time. Yours and Dean's." God quirks an eyebrow at Sam. He looks very paternal in that navy blue sweater vest, that light blue shirt and jeans. "Dean was supposed to come up here with you. He refused. Free will, remember?"

Sam shrugs. He won't concede the point. "All that stuff I just went through. The injuries and the pain. What was that all about?"

"You're not at rest, Sam. You did that to yourself."

Okay. Right. "Can I go now?"

God smiles, a bright warm smile that actually makes it pretty hard for Sam to maintain that defiant attitude of his. He feels all this turmoil swirling around inside him, the light against the dark, and it sounds crazy, but he's not going to settle down like some good little boy. If he didn't do it for John Winchester he sure as hell isn't going to do it just because the Creator of the Universe wills it. Sam thinks that, and instantly feels pretty guilty for the thought. He's pretty sure that God has better things to do than play tricks with his mind.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm a real big fan of free will around here. Sure, you can go."

"I don't…I don't mean go back to Jess. I mean, can I leave Heaven?"

"Tell you what. I've got a sandlot game I need to go to in another minute or so. You can come with me if you want. It's up to you."

Sam frowns.

"We can watch the game. Talk about you and Dean. You don't have to come if you don't want to."

Sam just stares at Him for a moment. _Sandlot game? Huh._

What the hell. Sam nods, and God smiles.

_**000000**_

_**Trotter's Bar**_

_**Elizabethville, Ohio**_

The bartender's a beauty. She's got long straight black hair down to the middle of her back, eyes the color of melted chocolate framed by long dark eyelashes, plus an ass you can put on a nickel. Dean is very appreciative of the view as he slides onto the barstool.

"Hi, Dean," Casey drawls smoothly. "What'll you have?"

"How'd you know my name?"

She quirks one eyebrow up at the big screen TV on the wall above her and shrugs. Anchorman Brian Williams sits there solemnly, over the red and black banner DISASTER IN VATICAN CITY.

Dean shrugs.

"We heard about what happened to you and your brother. What you did this morning."

Dean quirks an eyebrow at her, and she smiles. "We have a daily newsletter. Actually used to be paper. Now we get text messages and alerts."

Dean laughs. "Oh, really?"

"Really." Casey nods and leans forward onto the bar. "And you, Dean Michael Winchester, are a very, very popular item. The buzz about you started the very first time you went hunting."

"Is that a fact?" Dean grins. _Well. Damn._

"Oh, yeah." She straightens up and her smirk gets a little wider. "Whatever you want, it's on the house. Your money's no good here. What'll you have?"

"Surprise me."

She smiles and draws a beer with a decent thick head of foam from the tap. Dean can see the demon inside her just underneath her smooth peach colored skin. There was a time when he would've broken out the Latin, exorcised the fugly and rescued the maiden fair.

Now he just doesn't give a damn.

Casey glances up at the TV just as Brian Williams says that the Pope is still missing but it's assumed he wasn't even in the city when the disaster occurred. "You missed a spot."

Dean smiles tightly at the memory as he raises his glass to his lips. "No, I didn't."

_You're the one I want. Sam's dead because of you. _

_The pope heard Dean in his head before he ever saw him. The sound of Dean's voice made his brain bleed. _

_I had--I had nothing to do with that. I don't know what you're talking about--_

_Happened on your watch, buddy. Too friggin' bad. _

_They'd left the city in a panic, the bodyguards pushing and shoving His Eminence into that big black limo while the other guards piled into three black SUVs. All the drills, all the training exercises didn't prepare them for this. Lucifer had come up from Hell and was singlehandedly destroying the city._

_They got it all ass backwards, of course, but none of that really mattered._

_Even though they were supposedly on the same side, until now Dean hadn't paid much attention to the Vatican. Wasn't like the Higher Powers had done his family any flaming favors over the years anyway. He couldn't even remember this one's name. Tom, Dick or Harry, it was all the same to Dean. Sam was dead because of those bastards, and this one was the head man in charge. _

_Dean caught up with them fifty miles out from Vatican City. He faded into view on the road sixty feet in front of the limo._

_The driver of the limo died first. At first the pope didn't understand why the man's head was turned all the way around facing him, and his body still faced forward. He was supposed to drive, get them out of there, safely away from all of this. Guillermo's eyes were open and he looked like he was about to speak. _

_The bodyguard in the front seat gasped as something unseen grabbed his head and twisted it all the way around to the back. The guards on either side of His Eminence died that way too, and he finally understood. _

_The fire twisted and turned all around Dean as he walked up to the car. His power surrounded him in circular waves of fiery light that seared the air and liquefied the blacktop underneath his feet. His feet never touched the ground and he never even felt the gunshots from the black SUVs behind the limo. _

_Dean glanced sideways at the SUVs and in the rear view mirror the Pope saw the other vehicles tumble slowly into the air like flaming wind-blown leaves. _

_The passenger side doors were pulled off without much thought. _

_The pope's voice went up another octave as Dean reached in and grabbed him. Dude was squeaking now and the mewling sounds he was making worked Dean's last nerve. "I'm not the Devil, you hear me?"_

_Fear rolled off the holy dude in waves that prickled at Dean's skin. "Satan…Lucifer…"_

_He jabbered away in Italian, and Dean rolled his eyes heavenward. "I'm not…" _

"_The most beautiful angel God ever created…you are…you have to be…"_

_Dean fisted the front of his robe and gave him a good hard shake. "My name is Dean Winchester, you hear me? Dean Winchester. I'm not Satan. Your thugs came to America, tortured me and my brother, Sam." Another hard shake, and Dean's fist bloomed soft yellow flame that travelled up his fingers. "They killed him, and I killed them. All of them."_

"_God protect me…"_

"_Old man," Dean said quietly into the shell of his ear," looks like he's falling down on the job with that one."_

"You got some nerve coming in here, boy."

Dean blinks. The voice is too rough, too loud. He's back in Trotter's Bar, back in the present. He already knows what he's going to see when he turns around. One black eyed demon wearing the body of the tallest, baldest freakin' huge Hell's Angel Dean's ever seen. In life. He's got tattoos, leather, the whole nine yards. "Where's that damn daddy and that sissy brother of yours?"

Dean feels the power inside him stir, instantly awake. Apparently this jackass missed the latest edition of the demon newsletter.

Dean shrugs as he looks up at Baldy. "Dead. Both of 'em."

"Oh. Heh." The Hell's Angel rumbles laughter. "That's too damn bad."

"But they're not as dead as _you're_ gonna be," Dean adds mildly.

"Huh?" Dark grey smoke puffs out of the dude's mouth. He looks startled as large dark scorched spots bloom underneath his skin.

He tries to run, but Dean holds him in place. Dean's flame is hungry, angry almost, and it makes up for lost time. In the end there's nothing left, less than half a teaspoonful of fine grey ash scattered across the red and black tile floor.

"Thanks for not burning the place down." Casey wipes off the counter top with a rag, using long efficient strokes. "I hate job hunting."

"No problem."

"Can I get you another?"

Dean shakes his head. "No thanks."

"I know you're going after your Dad next."

"Am I _that _obvious?"

Casey smiles. "Yeah, you are." Her smile falters, dims a little as she meets Dean's eyes. "Good luck with that. I mean it, Dean."

"Luck?" Dean shakes his head. "Thanks. But I'm not the one that's gonna need it."

_**000000**_

"So it's settled, then?" Beelzeboul always was a stickler for details. "You know what you have to do when your boy gets here?"

"I do," John growls.

It takes a lot to impress Beelzeboul. He's always been difficult in that way. But this time, as he stands there staring at John Winchester, Beelzeboul has to admit he's impressed.

John's eyes shine pitch black in Hell's half light.

_**00000**_

_**Next up: Dean Winchester's 2008 Vengeance Unlimited tour continues. **_


	6. Chapter 6

**Staring At The Sun, part 6**

_**A/N:**_ God looks like James Earl Jones did in The Sandlot.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Dean, Sam or Bobby. Eric's letting me play with them.

* * *

Dean steps outside Trotter's Bar and onto the observation deck of the Grand Canyon in one smooth, seamless motion. All that driving he did, all over the country, and he never got to see the damn place. The job came first. It was always the job, and they'd never had one at the Grand Canyon.

He arrives at midday, right in the middle of a group of tourists with cameras. People nearby see him when he fades in. Dean doesn't even think about hiding. Why the hell should he?

Dean hears a camera phone click and casually lashes out in that direction. He fuses the camera into molten slag and instantly vaporizes the tourist, one Calvin Donahue from Atlantic City. There's a moment of stunned silence. No real panic, because they're still not sure exactly what the hell happened. The gawkers and bystanders move away from him in a group, whispering and staring. Right now Dean doesn't give a damn about any of them. He could go medieval on the entire state if he wanted to. All he has to do is think about seeing the red rocks below run red with blood.

They have families. They have what he lost.

All it would take to trigger more carnage would be the sound of another camera shutter going off, a dirty look, a whispered curse word. Fortunately, none of that happens and Dean doesn't pay any more attention to the tourists.

He leans against the railing, and he can actually feel the earth move underneath his feet, hear the rush of the clouds overhead. Dean stares upward into the clear blue sky and sees everything and nothing. The bright sunlight warms his skin, stokes the fires inside him.

Being around Casey made him feel off balance. He felt…he felt almost _human_ around her, and that was a damn laugh. She's a demon wearing a meatsuit. And _he's_….

Hell, Dean doesn't know _what_ the hell he is now.

_They know he's going after Dad next._

Like it or not, and he doesn't, he has limits. Disposing of Tessa and those Reapers very nearly ended it all. They almost had him.

Dean cocks his head to one side, listens to that faint echo inside his head before he's even aware of it.

Someone's calling him.

It's faint and familiar. He knows that voice as well as he knows his own. Dean closes his eyes and smells chili. Dusty books. Dried herbs. Motor oil. It was the only house other than the one in Lawrence, Kansas that he could ever call home. He felt safe, comfortable behind those walls.

He allows himself to be pulled in that direction and he's gone in the blink of an eye. After all, what's the harm?

Hell will keep. It's not like it's going anywhere.

_**000**_

Sam sits there blinking in the sunlight. He decides he can toss all that stuff he read in Pastor Jim's books about Heaven. Sam glances sideways at God and despite himself actually grins a little.

They're sitting on dusty wooden benches, sparse green grass everywhere, with a crude baseball diamond scratched into the dusty earth. Kids are everywhere, all shapes and sizes and colors, and they're not playing with regulation equipment and nobody seems to give a damn because they're all having too good a time out here.

Not what he expected. Not at all.

God's traded in the navy blue sweater vest, light blue shirt and jeans. He's kept the rimless silver sunglasses, and now He's wearing a long sleeved blue and white checkered shirt and blue overalls and work boots, screaming his head off at the umpire.

"Come on, what are you, blind?" God yells in that deep rich voice of his. "He was safe!"

Being Creator of the Universe doesn't seem to pull much weight with the twelve year old umpire. The kid's unimpressed. He's tall, rangy, with a head full of coal black hair. The kid stares at God and shakes his head_ no_.

God doesn't strike the kid stone dead or turn him into a frog. God laughs.

Sam stares at Him, and it suddenly dawns on him where he's seen this before. "Uh, you wouldn't happen to have a big dog named Hercules, would you?"

God quirks an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, I do. He's around here somewhere. You like dogs, don't you Sam?"

"Yeah."

"I remember when you were eight. Down in Shreveport, Louisiana, wasn't it? You wanted a dog, but your Dad wouldn't let you have one. Dean borrowed that collie shepherd from one of the neighbors, just so you'd have one for a little while at least."

Sam stiffens at the mention of Dean and John.

God shrugs. "Life is all about living, Sam. The pain that you feel sometimes is all a part of it."

"That's it?" Sam wonders out loud. That's your pitch?"

The fat kid strikes out, and his team mates groan. So does God.

"But if you're expecting me to explain everything that's happened to your family," God continues as the fat kid walks slowly to the sidelines, shoulders slumped, "well, I can't do that either."

Sam juts his chin out angrily. "I've had enough of this. I'm leaving."

Sam expects the skies to darken, open up in a torrent of rain. He braces himself for the lightning strike that will fry him to a blackened crisp.

None of that happens.

God leans forward as he watches the game. "Free will. I told you that before, didn't I?" he says softly as Sam gets up to leave.

As soon as he thinks about it, Sam finds himself back in the library. He gathers up his laptop, and his books, everything right where he left it. He has to say goodbye to Jess. He owes her that much, at least.

Sam's surprised it's that easy. It really isn't.

_**000**_

If Dean has become what Bobby suspects he has, only a damn fool would invite him into his own house. The hell of it was, Bobby couldn't ask anyone else to shoulder this burden. Wouldn't have been fair, or right.

A warm wind comes up, ruffling the curtains and the pages of books stacked nearby, even though the doors and windows are shut. A chill crawls over Bobby's skin despite the increase in temperature.

Dean Winchester steps out of thin air, right in the middle of the chalk sigil in Bobby Singer's living room. Dean glances up at the sigil of St. Anthony chalked onto the ceiling directly above.

_He hasn't changed. Not one bit,_ Bobby thinks to himself. Got the collar of his leather jacket turned up, same as always. Faded jeans with holes in the knees, black tee, denim overshirt. Bobby can still see the kid in Dean, the freckle faced boy who showed up on his doorstep one day, standing quietly behind John Winchester, the skinny kid who shielded his little brother Sammy from the rain that poured down that day.

Bobby can still see the young man the boy became, a damn fine hunter who cared for other people even to the point of putting his own life at risk.

Yet this is the same man who'd destroyed an entire city that very same morning. They were one and the same. Everything's changed, and nothing has. Bobby expected something, a big monstrous change --

_Horns and a tail? Would that make you feel any better?_ Dean says quietly inside Bobby's head.

"No," Bobby says out loud.

Dean laughs as he stares at the possessions on the floor around him. Bobby's been busy, apparently. Must have made the trip to Dad's lock-up in Black Rock. There's the first sawed-off shot-gun Dean ever made, in sixth grade. That metal protection amulet Dad made Dean wear when they hunted that fae. A photo of John holding three year old Sam and seven year old Dean sitting by a lake somewhere. The clothes they wear are worn and obviously second hand, but John's smiling, fiercely proud of his boys.

_Nice._ Dean tilts his head to one side, slowly, as he takes it all in. _St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come down. Something is lost and can't be found._

He sounds genuinely amused by the rhyme, pleased that he was able to remember it from his childhood.

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a smile that somehow makes Bobby's skin crawl. _You got it all wrong, Bobby. I'm not lost._ Dean spreads his arms wide. _Here I am. _

"I've been worried about you, Dean. You and Sam."

_Sam's dead, Bobby._

Bobby nods. "I know. Son, what happened?"

Dean blinks._ They hunted us. Caught us in Las Vegas._

Bobby keeps his face still and his thoughts quiet. Vegas. There was one hell of a fire there the day before…

"Who?"

_Hunters. From the Vatican. _Dean's expression is calm, serene.

Bobby feels his shoulders sag. All that death and destruction... he can taste the ash in his throat. "Dean…you…you're a decent man."

_I was._

"Kid, you're breaking my heart."

_I couldn't keep him safe. _Dean's thought voice wavers. The air vibrates between them, and Bobby flinches painfully. A small drop of blood trickles from his ear, down his neck, onto the collar of his shirt.

_Do you want to see what they did? To me? To Sam? _There's a slight tremor in that thought voice, a crack in the calm that Bobby doesn't miss.

"Dean--"

Dean steps over the sigil lines easily, with no effort on his part at all. Bobby's vision blurs painfully, and he feels Dean's presence right next to him. Dean grips Bobby's wrist before the older man can even react or pull away.

Dean's touch is light. His skin is warm, slightly calloused. Images from that damn room snap and spark behind Bobby's eyes. He tastes blood in his mouth. Those wide leather restraint straps chafe his wrists, hold him upright in that damn chair, tightly, unable to move. Bobby's jaw aches as that bitch in the grey suit slaps him in the face, over and over again.

_You will not talk to each other. You will talk only to me. Confession is good for the soul._

Bobby's light-headed from the drugs, faint and weak from near-starvation. He nearly groans aloud as one of the men steps forward and breaks the two middle fingers of his right hand.

Bobby sees Dean, bruised, bloody and defiant. He sees Sam, pale, silent and dying.

When the vision shorts out Bobby's on his knees and he can't remember how he got there. He can't catch his breath. His skin is chilled, cold to the touch. He doesn't even realize that he's not speaking out loud. _What…what are you going to do now?_

_I'm going to collect my family. Sam. Dad. My mom. _

_You were supposed to cross over. Dean, it was your time to cross over, and you didn't._

"All we wanted was to be left alone. That was all," Dean whispers softly out loud. "They wouldn't leave us alone."

Bobby kneels there, caught in a white hot haze of pain and confusion. Dean's hand tightens slightly on his shoulder. Bobby groans as the pain in his body flares up all over.

"Dean, you're…you're killing me," Bobby croaks out loud.

Dean doesn't answer.

The bones in Bobby's fingers knit back together. The injuries melt away. _He's healing me,_ Bobby thinks wildly, but this isn't a gentle, healing touch. It's the opposite, violent, brutal.

Bobby stares up at Dean just as the younger man's eyes turn dark gold.

_My God,_ Bobby thinks to himself, and that's the last thing he remembers for quite a while.

_**000**_

_**TBC**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own them. I just borrowed them. Thanks, Eric!

* * *

"Jess…I'm sorry. I gotta go."

Sam sits on the edge of the bed and his shoulders sag. "It's Dean. He's…he's back on earth, and he's…he's in trouble, Jess. I can't leave him out there like that. He was supposed to come up here with me, and he refused. He didn't want me to come, and when I died he…he killed…"

"Sam," Jess nods. "I know what Dean did. Everyone knows. He's in a lot of pain right now, and he's striking out. At everyone. I understand that," she nods. "I do."

Sam stares at the floor. They never talked about Jess' death after he came up. He just let himself get swept up in the peace and happiness of his life (unlife?) and now he feels like the biggest bastard in creation.

Sam's head aches just as much as his heart does. He can hear Dean growl inside his head, _Why, Samantha. You are such a big girl._

Jess takes his hand and sits on the bed beside him.

"Sam," Jess says quietly, "when we were down there, things were different." She laughs, and Sam feels his chest tighten. "It's different when you cross over. I know you had the dream about me dying like that. I know you didn't think anything of it."

Sam actually flinches. Jess leans forward and places her hand alongside his face. "Look, Winchester, it's okay. It's all right.

"No, no it isn't." Sam shakes his head. His eyes feel suddenly wet and achy and this isn't the way he wanted this to go.

"Yes, it is. I'm fine with it. Remember when you saw me on the street that day? You'd been having nightmares? You and Dean went after Bloody Mary, and she used the memory of me to hurt you?"

Sam laughs. It's not a happy sound. "You know about that?"

Jess nods.

"You didn't look very happy," Sam says hoarsely.

"I wasn't. You were tearing yourself up with guilt, and I could sense it. I could feel it, and it hurt me more than dying ever did. Sam, things happen for a reason. They do." She reaches out, puts her slim hand on top of his, and for a moment Sam wants to draw back. Not to reject her, but because he thinks he's not worth any kindness she might show him. He failed her once, left her, and now he's doing it again.

"If you hadn't gone off with Dean there's no telling what would have happened. It was my time. I accepted that, and you have to now. I had the time of my life with you." Jess squeezes his fingers. "Wouldn't trade it for _anything_. You have to believe that, Sam. You have to _believe_. Period."

"Believe what?"

"That everything's possible. That no one's a lost cause. I know what you and Dean went through down there. He's your big brother. He's taken care of you all his life. He's bled for you, nearly died for you more than once. You died and he couldn't stop it. You're not at peace here, so you have to go back. That's all there is to it. He's your brother, and you can't turn your back on him."

She leans forward, and they're in each other's arms before Sam even realizes it. They sit there on the bed like that for some time. It's what Sam needs, and they both know that.

_**000**_

Bobby takes first one breath, then another.

He's surprised as hell to find himself still alive, still breathing. His head's dizzy and fuzzy, all at the same time. His limbs are stiff. He's lost his bearings and he can't tell what position his body's in. There's no sense in playing possum. If Dean's still there, in the room with him, playing possum won't fool _him_.

Bobby opens his eyes.

Damn. Another surprise.

He was on his knees before he blacked out. He couldn't move on his own. Now he's sitting in that easy chair over by the bookcase, and the only way he could end up in the chair would be if Dean placed him there.

It takes Bobby another minute or two to figure out what this yellow and blue thing over him is. He paws at it clumsily, and as soon as he touches it he knows exactly what it is.

He pulls it off him with a grunt and just sits there, fisting the material in his hands. It's that damn yellow and blue blanket from his bedroom.

It's a lot to digest, and Bobby takes it all in slowly.

_They wouldn't leave us alone…_

Dean annihilated Vatican City this morning. Burned down a city block in of Las Vegas the day before. He seemed lost when Bobby saw him, wouldn't speak out loud until the bitter end, almost as though he wanted to distance himself from being human. Dean showed Bobby what happened to him and Sam, then healed Bobby of his injuries.

So far Dean's killed thousands of people, yet he sat Bobby down in that chair and covered him with that damn yellow and blue blanket.

That's a hell of a lot of contradictions. Nothing like any demon's Bobby's ever heard of. Dean could have killed him. Dean didn't.

The yellow of the blanket reminds Bobby of the way Dean's eyes looked.

Bobby doesn't know what went on. Dean might have made a deal with the damn demon, for Sam. Deal might have gone sour, and Dean lashed out. His daddy made a deal to keep Dean alive, and it damn near killed the boy. It makes sense, but Bobby doesn't assume. Nothing's ever what it seems.

_I'm going to collect my family. Sam. Dad. My mom._

Heaven. And hell, then. And suddenly Bobby's pretty sure that whatever Dean's planning on doing will spill over to Earth. Bobby would like to think he's wrong, but that bad feeling sitting low and heavy in his gut tells him otherwise.

Bobby gets up, slowly at first. He's got work to do, and he can't take his damn sweet time doing it.

_**000**_

There were thousands of them…

_I am Legion, and We are many._

…crammed together in that one small place about the width and height of the average human, waiting after all these years for just the right vessel to come along. Being confined like that was supposed to be a punishment…

…_waited for him all our lives…_

And it was. _At first._

There were thousands of stories in that small cramped space.

This one had "ten good years on top" after he made a deal with the Crossroads Demon to kill his entire family.

…_so strong, so powerful…_

That one was shredded into bits by the Daeva that she summoned.

…_chose his own path…_

She used herbs and rat poison to make her life easier. The people she killed were old. They didn't need that money.

…_green eyed child, hunter's cub, demon's spawn..._

He was just a boy when he set fire to his aunt's house after she took him in. The flames spread to the other houses in the neighborhood. Eleven more people died.

…_use him to take heaven and hell…_

She never meant for them to die in that accident, but really, she wasn't all that broken up about it.

_...move across this world like a force of nature…_

It was altogether fitting that their future vessel was of both places, a hunter's son corrupted by demon blood, tormented by the knowledge that he'd been unable to save his brother. He followed his own course, but with the right motivation he could be persuaded to follow their path. They'd have a home at last, and he'd never be alone again, because they would never leave him.

_**000**_

Somewhere, somewhen, Sam looks perfect, like he's just fallen asleep. Dean can almost believe that if he went over and poked him in the arm, Sam would wake up, shaggy brown hair all over his head, blinking, grumbling like he always does.

Like he always _did_.

Sam's body is _dead_, and Dean knows it.

No breath sounds, no heat signature. Dean can see stuff like that now, if he wants to. Live people glow with sustained heat, red and orange flowing all over them.

In this place Sam doesn't glow. His chest doesn't rise and fall. He's tinted a cool shade of blue, and he looks a little out of place against the clean bright colors in the room.

The place looks like one of the motel rooms they stayed in on the road. Plush beige carpet, Clean white walls. It smells just as clean as the real room smelled. One of the nicer ones, as a matter of fact, taken from Dean's memory when Sam came back, and they were on the road again. Dad was still out there, somewhere, and Jessica Moore had been laid to rest weeks before.

Sam was back, and Dean didn't feel that emptiness inside him anymore.

Now Sam's body lies on the queen side bed in the middle of the room. The world outside looks like bright sunlight, and the room is well lit. Dean couldn't burn him, couldn't put him in the ground.

He didn't want Sam to be in the dark, either.

Dean pulls up a chair and sits. He leans forward, rubs his palms together. That's a gesture he's seen John Winchester do more than once. Neither one of them is any good with words. Even worse with emotions.

Dean doesn't even know why he came here.

"Saw Bobby today," Dean says out loud. "Said he was worried…about us. Told him what happened. We'll be okay, Sam. We will. I'm sorry about this whole mess, you know? Sorry I couldn't…." Something catches in his throat and stops his voice just then.

The corners of his eyes feel wet and achy. His chest hurts, and he wonders why.

Everything inside him went dead quiet when he watched Sam take his last breath. It was better when he didn't feel anything. Better back in Vatican City. They didn't look human to him, none of them did, and he had no problem making them burn. The emptiness inside him was filled up with the rage he felt at losing Sam, and his power expanded to fill him upside.

He can't quite describe what it sounds, the way it makes him feel. It's a song inside him. It fills him up. Dean figures if someone put an ear to his chest that would be the sound they'd hear, not his heartbeat, but that roaring echo within, like a seashell on the beach with the memory of the ocean trapped inside.

He had a hard time being around Bobby. He wanted to hurt the older hunter. He didn't want to hurt him. Dean felt one and the same all at once.

Dean closes his eyes and all he sees is blackness and flames. It's terrifying, and comforting. He takes a deep breath, wills the tightness in his chest away. The roar inside him rises up, and when he opens his eyes again his eye color is a deep brilliant green.

"I'm gonna get Dad back. Mom and Jessica, too. We'll find a place to live, Sam. I'll make a place for us. I can fix it anyway you want. Nobody will take anything away from us anymore. Nobody. We all gave enough. We've suffered enough." Dean's eyes glint dark gold. "I'll make the whole world burn if I have to."

Sam doesn't answer. At least, not yet anyway.

_**000**_

John Winchester sits with his back against the steaming hot rocks. He lifts his blood stained tee shirt up, and he watches the skin of his belly knit back together. It's always the same. He's been disemboweled more times than he can remember, screamed and cursed in rage and defiance as the demons grabbed handfuls of his insides and played with it like a kitten plays with string.

He's lost time lately. Blanked out. Remembered being in one place and woke up in another. He feels uneasy in his skin, and when he realized _that_ he actually laughed. _You're dead, you damned fool, _he told himself._ You don't have a body anymore._ Might be his mind's way of dealing with all this.

After all, he's in Hell.

He thinks of his boys. Dean especially. The stunned look that froze his son's pale features when he told the boy that if he couldn't save Sam he would have to kill him. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right putting such a burden on Dean, but if anyone could follow through, it would be Dean. He doesn't need much explanation, just John's say so.

John hears a growling laugh behind him, and he doesn't even bother to turn around. "You havin' fun yet, Johnny boy?"

"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

The demon laughs. "That's the spirit. How you feeling these days, John? You okay?"

John glares at him.

The thing shuffles backwards, rubs its long thin hands together. Its skin color shifts, changes from blue to orange-red, and those long whip-like horns sticking out of its forehead lengthen and twist together like dry vines shaking in the wind. It blinks black eyed at him, and John gets the feeling that the damn thing is nervous around him. It's true he's fought them every step of the way, but he's in their house, so to speak. They've got every advantage.

Bastard's up to something, and he doesn't know what.

_Wanna see your boys again?_ this voice whispers inside his head, and John tries not to startle.

_Who the hell are you?_

_I'm nothing. Nobody. _

_You're inside--_

_Yeah, yeah, I know. Let's get past the moment of discovery, shock, disbelief, outrage and anger, shall we?_

_Fuck you too._

_Alright then. They put me inside you. It's a trap. Your boy's coming down here soon to get you out. _

_My boy?_

_You know. Dean. I hear he's quite the mover and shaker nowadays. _

_And why the hell are you telling me?_

_You just answered your own question, boyo. I want out. I got plans. Ambition. Think I wanna be stuck down here for all eternity? _

John sits there for a minute, quiet and still. Then:_ I'm listening. _

**000**

He's heard about people walking up_ to_ Heaven's Gates, but he's never heard about anybody walking _out_.

_Good one, Sammy,_ Dean snarks inside Sam's head. _Trust you to take the road less travelled, Poindexter. _

He thought about packing his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and walking. He left the backpack there with Jess and started walking anyway. No exit signs anywhere. Sam wasn't sure if he should just close his eyes and click his heels three times.

_There's no place like home…_

Home was wherever Dean was.

He's a couple of blocks from the apartment when he thinks that maybe he should go look God up at that sandlot game. Only trouble is, Sam can't remember where the game was being played. He doesn't have a clue. He's got free will, though, so maybe he should keep stepping.

He stops on the sidewalk in front of one of the shops. Bookstore. Alternate stuff. He sees books on religion, legends and politics. You'd think a bookstore up in heaven would be packed wall to wall with the Bible, but no, that's another surprise. Heaven's full of them.

Sam doesn't notice the slight darkening in the sky directly above and behind him. By the time he does notice, it's too late. He can't move. He's wrapped in what feels like thick soft feathers, with his arms pinned to his sides.

The sun overhead goes out.

_**000**_

Sam blinks.

He's not sure what happened just then. He feels funny. Like there's not as much of him as there was before. Traffic sounds behind him, and cars move up and down the street behind him. It's all normal. The world moving through the day, business as usual. People pass him by on the street, and they don't give him a second glance.

Sam stares at the kid's reflection in the plate glass window.

He sees close-cropped curly brown hair. Caramel brown skin with a spray of coffee colored freckles across his nose. Kid's young, black, about fourteen, and he's at that gangly, coltish stage that Sam knew all too well at that age. Faded blue jeans, a striped blue and white polo shirt, and well worn black tennis shoes. Kid's got a worn green canvas duffel slung over his shoulder.

Sam shifts his duffel over to his right shoulder, and the reflection does the same.

Sam stops and stares.

Sam reaches up and scratches his chin. Peach fuzz. His fingers shake slightly.

The kid's fingers shake too.

It takes another moment, and then it hits him. Sam gets it.

He's looking at himself in the glass.

_**TBC**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own 'em. Ya happy now?

* * *

Damn phone always goes off when you don't want it to. The voice on the other end sounds relieved, actually pleased to hear that gruff bark of his. "Hey, Bobby? You okay?"

The pain and fatigue in her voice makes Bobby flinch a little. "Pam? Pam Barnes? You sound like hell."

"Yep. I look like it too, no doubt. Lot of psychic nukes going off lately. Last one came from your direction." She pauses for a second, and Bobby gets ready to make small talk about anything, anyone _but_ Dean. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Bobby feels the floor try to lurch out from under him. He leans heavily onto the table with one hand.

_Anthony, St. Anthony, please come down. Something is lost and can't be found._

"No…" Bobby says slowly. "No, he didn't."

_You got it all wrong, Bobby. I'm not lost._ _Here I am. _

"Dean Winchester. John Winchester's eldest son, am I right? This old world's never seen anything like him before, Singer."

Bobby sits down heavily in that big wooden chair and scrubs his hand across his face. "You're telling me."

"He didn't kill you, but a part of him wanted to. The same part that wiped Vatican City off the map. Turned part of Las Vegas into crispy critter land. He's killed nearly a million people, Bobby, but he didn't kill you. You might be the key to turning this whole thing around."

"Geez," Bobby growls softly. "No pressure, huh?"

"Sorry. Some people are born to greatness, others have greatness thrust upon them. That sounds dirty no matter how I say it. So. You swinging by to pick me up?"

"Wh-what?"

"I'm four hours down the interstate, and my bags are already packed."

"Pam, this…this isn't your fight."

"Hell, yeah, it is now. My head feels like God tried to scoop my brains out with a dull spoon. It's gonna keep happening whether I'm there with you or not. We can do a little more research after you get here, but I got a feeling we're on a deadline. The whole damn world is. Am I right?"

Bobby sighs. "I don't know why I even bother to argue with you. I never win."

She chuckles, light and easy. "That's right. See you in four."

_**000**_

There's water in hell.

Sure there is.

Teddy kneels at the edge of the lake and pushes his face into the water, drinks long and deep. His stomach still grumbles as he opens his mouth wide and sucks the water up greedily. It's slick and cold, and he's gotten to the point that he doesn't even notice the taste of sulfur and shit anymore.

It's not fair. He never gets enough to eat or drink. He tries catching some of the others for food, but they're too fast for him. They always get away, and they always laugh at him.

It wasn't always like that, kneeling in the maroon dark like that. He remembers bright sunlight and the smell of gasoline and the feel of rope in his hands. That van he had was cherry, and he loved riding around in it. He remembers buying rolls of duct tape and chains, remembers the startled looks on the faces of his food as he came towards them with his butcher knives. He was always hungry, but there was more than enough food and water topside, not like now.

He remembers the cops who came to get him, remembers the trial, and all those long years spent in prison trying to convince everyone that he was fine now, a new man. Just let him out and they'll see. He'll show them.

But they never did. Came the day the hunger came back, and he really didn't know that other inmate had that homemade knife on him. Much less that the bastard actually did know how to use it.

There's water in hell, and Teddy gulps it down and there's never enough. That gnawing hole inside him is never filled, and the others know he's weak. Teddy really doesn't know how long he's been down there. It's been a while.

He sits back on his heels, and shivers. His mouth feels funny. Numb. He raises his fingers and pokes at the frost and ice around his mouth.

This is something new.

There's water in hell all right, but one thing that Teddy's _never_ seen it do is freeze over.

_**000**_

Sam sits on that park bench across the street from the bookstore and takes inventory. He's a little afraid, uneasy in this stolen skin of his.

For one thing, he doesn't know if this is a possession or not. Was this kid walking along minding his own business, only to have Sam dropped inside him, like groceries in a plastic sack? Sam feels the beginnings of anger stir up inside him. He wanted to return to earth all right, but not like this.

Sam sits there in the sunlight, and he stills himself. Sometimes he can still feel the way Meg pushed her way into his body, drove him deep underneath his skin. He yelled (well, sounds better than screamed, doesn't it?), held on by his fingernails, and it didn't matter. Nothing did. She laughed as she dragged him under. He was trapped, drifted in and out, saw only what Meg allowed him to see, and remember.

"_I don't think it's my blood."_

If he hears any screaming or whispering inside this head other than his own voice, that's _it_, heaven or no, he's_ gone_, he's _out_.

"_Sam, what the hell happened?"_

_Steve Wandel lies limp, bloody and lifeless. _

"_Dean...I don't remember anything."_

Sam sits there for a long moment. _**HELLO? ANYBODY HOME?**_

Nothing. He's the only one home.

And curiously enough,_ that_ doesn't make him feel any better.

He opens the backpack, fingers shaking slightly as he works the zipper open. This body knows just how much pressure to apply, how to jiggle the balky zipper without tearing it open, and that only creeps Sam out even more.

He looks inside, sees a clean pair of faded blue jeans, an oversized white tee shirt, two pair of socks rolled up. The watch is old and heavy, looks like something that a much older man would wear. It's not digital, and the hands on the watch face move smoothly across the face. Sam pulls the watch out, puts it to his ear.

The watch casing is scratching and worn. Somebody loved it enough to keep it working all these years. Sam smiles a little when he puts the watch back, and he doesn't know why. It just seems familiar somehow.

Sam digs a little deeper, and he's got his game face on when his fingers brush against smooth metal.

The gun's 45 caliber. M1911. Not as fancy and chrome plated as Dean's gun, not by half. The red wood grain grip of this gun is worn, the surface scratched up, but it's well oiled and obviously somebody's been taking good care of it. Sam's careful not to pull it out of the backpack. He looks around the park to see if anyone is looking, and people move back and forth all around him, jogging, walking their dogs, or just lazing out in the midday sun.

He can't shake the feeling that he's being watched. It's crazy and scary, and he has to force himself not to look up at the sky. Sam roots around in the bag some more and finds two clips, fully loaded, and a wad of rubber banded cash thick enough to choke the proverbial horse. Looks like twenty five hundred in there, at least.

_Damn. _

His stomach -- his borrowed stomach – rumbles then, deep, low and complaining. He notices it then, real hunger setting on his belly like a stone. Sam pulls a twenty out of the bundle and slips it into his jeans pocket. Time to eat, then, and after that, he's got to pick up a couple of items. He and Dean had always gotten a little "ghetto" with the spellwork, but substitutions with common everyday objects could still be made with good results.

Sam gets up and slings the backpack over his right shoulder. His brother's out there somewhere, and Sam's got work to do.

_**000**_

It's a cold day in this corner of hell all right, and no one can figure just who turned down the thermostat. John Winchester stands there in the middle of a snowstorm, and John does the only thing he can do.

He laughs.

The demons around him are spooked, so this has to be a _good_ thing. Wind currents nip and snap at exposed, tattered skin. John doesn't notice, and he doesn't give a damn. The demon inside him is quiet, at least. Another good thing.

It takes John a moment to realize that he can feel what the damned thing is feeling.

It's afraid.

The other demons mill around snapping and snarling at each other. Damned souls scurry out of the way, but one of them, a barefoot woman wearing a blood-stained fifties dress like Donna Reed, isn't fast enough. This big black eyed bastard with goat horns grabs her, shrieks with glee, as it wrings her neck like a chicken.

She staggers off with her head facing backwards. The goat demon takes one look at John and decides that he's next.

John stands his ground. He's screwed, and he knows it.

The wind picks up as the goat-man gets within two feet of John. Red snow swirls through the air around him, and John has to squint as he catches a glimpse of battered brown leather, a flash of wide green eyes. Goat Boy's own black eyes widen as he's pushed backwards. John stares at the hand around the thing's neck.

Light from fires still burning in the distance glints off that wide silver washer ring.

The goat man falls backwards, his skin and eyes rimmed with a thick coating of reddish snow and ice. When he hits the ground he crumbles into shards of red and black glass. Demons all around John freeze into place as that reddish ice glaze pins them where they stand, travels up their legs, their bodies. It creeps into their mouths, coats their eyes.

The snowfall increases, but this isn't some fluffy winter scene. John feels it then, and he knows he's not even feeling a tenth of it. It's a blizzard of fire, ice and snow, and at the center of it a terrible rage at the world for taking and taking and not giving anything back. It's darkness and light, violence and sacrifice, every contradiction in the world.

It's _Dean_. He's beautiful and terrible at the same time.

Dean putting himself in harm's way to save others.

Dean leaving Vatican City a smoking ruin.

Dean falling silent when Mary died, drawing into himself.

Dean falling silent when John died, and the walls inside started to crumble.

Dean falling silent when Sam died, the air around him vibrating with grief and pain and power.

John sees Dean standing untouched in the middle of a roaring inferno, and the fire softly caresses his skin with a lover's touch.

The air fills with shrapnel, ice particles, red and black bits of razor edged glass. John can't see anything anymore. He senses Dean instead, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Everything folds in around him in a howl of wind and blood red snow that goes blinding white.

John staggers under the weight of that sound in his head. It's a faint whisper.

It's the loudest thing he's ever heard in his life.

_I've got you, Dad. I'm here._

_**000**_

**_TBC_**


	9. Chapter 9

_**Staring At The Sun – Chapter 9 **_

_**A/N**_ – Yep, it's time for me to confess something. This is my whacked out version of the Dark Phoenix Saga mixed in with that Japanese myth about Susanoo and Amateratsu. Story Tagger, you and everyone who recognized the myth win No-Prizes. I'd like to give you something tangible but my muse tells me we're on a tight budget around here. Also, italics indicates John's flashbacks down in Hell. I apologize to everyone who reviewed last chapter and I haven't responded to your reviews yet. Real Life's been good for once, lately, but I have no excuse.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Damn.

* * *

The others stop talking when he comes around. Azazel doesn't give a damn. It galls him to have to consult with them, especially when it concerns one of his own. He's never been a team player. Had no use for that kind of thing. It was his way or the highway.

That was _then_; this is _now_.

Beelzeboul sent word for Azazel to come to the scene, but he hasn't spoken to Yellow Eyes since he arrived.

Azazel's always had influence over wild weather. Lightning storms, freak weather of an always violent nature, but Dean's abilities are godlike.

The bit about hell freezing over was _inspired_.

Still and all, Azazel feels an odd sense of pride about all of this. One of his special kids has enough power and juice to come in and take a soul out of hell. It's the kind of thing to make a papa proud of his wayward son, even if the snatched soul did happen to be John Winchester. According to all the lore only an angel is strong enough to snatch a soul from the pit, and whatever else he is now, Dean Winchester is certainly no angel.

The demons walk around the tall spires of red ice and snow with more than a bit of hesitation, as though the ice is going to reach out and grab them. The goat demon is recognizable only by his pair of horns. The rest of him is a pile of red and black glass. The others are locked into place, eyes bulging, mouths stretched wide in silent screams underneath a glaze of clear red. Even though hot sulfur winds blow down from the cityscapes of hell, the ice is frozen solid and shows no sign of melting.

Azazel carefully picks his way through the ice and debris. Beelzeboul falls in right beside him.

"I don't know why I had to see this," Azazel says testily. He slips on a patch of black ice and nearly falls. That doesn't improve his mood, and he curses in fluent ancient Sumerian under his breath. "We knew the boy was coming. Your plan is in place."

Beelzeboul shrugs the slim shoulders of the damned soul he's wearing. She was an elementary school principal who loved young boys and girls equally, and a little too well. "You _do_ want to be kept in the loop, don't you? I thought you'd want to be informed in this matter."

Azazel watches two black-eyed demons nearby as they breathe heavily into the frosty air. They laugh like hyenas, spewing out clouds of thick white mist out of their mouths and noses. _Idiots._

"You're handling this," Azazel snarls."What's _mine_ is _yours_, remember?"

Beelzeboul smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I expected to have to remind you of that fact. Good for you."

"Now what?"

"We have our man on the inside. Other people topside working on this. You know that."

"He'll come back here."

Beelzeboul shrugs. The gesture's too damn casual, and right then and there, Azazel _knows_ what's being left unsaid.

_If he does comes back, we still have something he wants. Namely, you. _

_**000**_

John comes out of the white-out staring at this face in front of him. It's not Dean; he knows that. For a moment he can't remember who this dude is.

There's something that he wants to tell Dean, but John can't remember what it was.

This is an older guy, world weary, his face darkened with soot and heavy stubble. The eyes are bloodshot, and his clothes are rumpled and blood-stained. This dude looks like he's been through hell. Literally.

It takes John a second or two to realize that he's looking at himself.

He's standing in a circle of tall rocks, coated mirror slick with ice. John stares at his reflection for a moment longer. He's torn, though. Can't stop looking at his reflection in the ice, but he's awestruck by what's going on around him.

Damnedest thing he's ever seen in the entire friggin' life. Or death.

John stands there in amazement, staring upwards at the gigantic wall clouds that rotate slowly around him. He's in the eye of the storm, a space a mere twenty feet in diameter. A gentle breeze ruffles his skin and his clothes. The air's warm and cool and pleasant all at the same time. Lightning flashes in the wall clouds, thunder rumbles through the ground, vibrating the soles of John's worn boots.

"Dean?" John's throat feels dry. He could do with a drink of water. A bottle of the stuff, cold and wet. He's dry, parched, like a dried out piece of old leather somebody left out in the sun for years.

_Played you, hunter_, the voice inside his head whispers.

John glances back at the ice mirror, and this time he can't look away.

_Played you all along…_

John blinks.

…_their claws dig and bite into his skin as they hold him down… _

Flashes of light sear the space behind his eyes, in time with the lightning strikes inside the clouds all around him.

_Black smoke boils into the air around him, settles down, pressing into the pores of his skin, sliding effortlessly down his throat and nose. They laugh and shriek as one of them grips his head in its hands. It's okay, baby, one of the bastards purrs softly into his ear. This won't hurt. Much. _

He can't remember it all. They did something else to him, and until now he couldn't remember what…

_They part the hair at the back of his head roughly with needle-tipped fingers, and at first John doesn't understand. _

_In the next second he does. _

_He tries not to scream as the demon digs its fingernail deep into his scalp. It draws the binding link in slow, agonizing strokes, and it smiles as John finally bellows in pain and rage. _

_Lethe, John. Lethe, _the demon inside him now whispers._ You remember what we want, when we want you to._

_Gig's up, Johnny,_ the demon whispers as John's pulled deep back into his skin. The demon seems just as startled as John is, and in that second John knows it's all Dean's doing. The pull is strong and familiar, like it was on other hunts gone south, other times when Dean shouldered the burden of carrying John, injured, sick or delirious, into whatever cabin or motel room they holed up in.

_Your boy's found me out._

John stares into the mirror as Dean _walks_ into view, not _behind_ him,_ but in front of him, inside the mirror_. John's frozen in place, unable to move.

Dean's_ angry_. Dean's _pissed_. The air vibrates with razor sharp anger the color of dark amber. It slashes at John's skin and clothing. John's ears bleed as his eardrums contract painfully, almost to the point of rupturing. Dean's wide green eyes flash dark gold as he steps out of the mirror right into John's space.

Dean's hand slides around John's throat. John stumble-steps along in reverse as Dean forces him backwards, slams him hard against the icy rock face.

_**GET THE HELL OUT OF HIM.**_ Dean thunders. **_NOW. _**Lightning scours the ground outside the eye.

John's features run momentarily like wax, shifting, the smile on his face too wide, full of viciousness and cunning. His eyes fill with pitch blackness.

"Well, _that_ didn't last too long," the demon sneers.

_**000**_

"All right, then," Pam comes back from the kitchen with a cup of tea in her hands. "Don't usually drink this stuff." She pulls a face, and for a moment she looks like a small girl about to take a spoonful of nasty medicine. "Tastes like crap, if you wanna know the truth about it, but I've got to keep a clear head this time. Sure you don't want anything? Beer? Soda?" She sits cross-legged on that big oversized sofa of hers, gently balancing the cup in her hands.

Bobby shakes his head no. He still has this slightly stunned look on his face. His face feels frozen into that one expression ever since Pam answered the door and he got a good look at her.

Saying she looks like hell doesn't even begin to cover it. She always was tall and athletic, but now she looks like she's dropped at least a good twenty pounds. Her skin is paler than Bobby remembered from the last time, and those dark circles underneath her eyes are worrisome. Extremely worrisome.

Bobby swallows thickly. "Did…did Dean do that to you?"

Pam shakes her head. "No. I don't think he was even aware of me. If he meant to hurt me, I wouldn't be here, Bobby. I caught the fringes of him, that's all."

"Oh." Bobby stares down at his scuffed brown work boots. He feels responsible. For_ her_. For _Dean_. He wasn't able to talk him down, and Bobby was pretty sure that if he'd tried to shake some sense into the young man_ that_ would've gone pretty badly, as in _crispy critter_ badly.

Pam smiles."Don't take it so hard, man." She shrugs. "I'm a psychic. It's what I do."

"Okay. But…"

"But what?"

"Pam, you look like twenty miles of bad road," Bobby blurts out gracelessly. Damn, he feels lower than a snake's belly. "If just sensing Dean did that to you, you really think getting up close and personal with him is good for you health-wise?"

Pam laughs. "We all gotta die from something," she quips, and she actually seems to enjoy that shocked look on Bobby's face. "Listen, whether you like it or not, I'm in this now. I don't know how, or why, but I am."

"Pam," Bobby says slowly, "what's...what's _he_ like?"

Pam smiles. She looks almost normal then, despite the paleness of her skin and those dark circles underneath her eyes. "It's like standing out in an open field with the sun overhead. I can see him even with my eyes closed. I can hear his voice in the air all around me. He rumbles like thunder sometimes. He's rageful and calm, defiant and confused all at the same time. He's the most powerful thing on the planet but he's the weakest, too. I've heard legends about forces of nature that are contained inside a mortal body. Something happens to release those forces. Sometimes the walls get worn down by life events. Something traumatic, like the death of a loved one. Losing Sam was the last straw."

Bobby nods. In the last twenty odd years Dean had been hammered, worn down by one blow after another. When Sam died the walls came tumbling down.

Pam leans forward, lifts the cup to her lips and frowns up a little as she takes a sip. "There are things out here that would love to use Dean for their own purposes." She tilts her head to one side. "He didn't mean to hurt you like that. He doesn't know his own strength sometimes. It's hard to relate to us humans, you know? I think he was trying to explain things to you. He loves you, old man."

"You're putting way too much stake in the likes of me, Pam," Bobby shakes his head. "Dean and I were _– are --_ close, but John and Sam were Dean's whole world."

"He'll burn the world down to get them back and you know it," Pam says simply, and there now, it's out in the open. Hunters are necessarily superstitious. Some things aren't said out loud, but after Las Vegas and Vatican City Bobby figures he can skip that little ritual. Pam barely manages to suppress a shudder. "Don't wanna be anywhere near any fool who tries to hurt either one of them."

"All right." Bobby takes a deep breath. "What do you want me to do?"

"You have to tell me the Winchester family history, Bobby. Everything that you know about Dean and Sam. John and Mary Winchester. And that yellow-eyed demon."

Bobby huffs. "Some psychic you are. Thought you could pull it out of my head like a rabbit out of a hat."

"Quit stalling, Robert. I want details. Doesn't matter how little you know, or you think you know. We'll fill in the blanks. We have to. Now give."

So he does.

_**000**_

Sam sits in the mall food court and the smells and the sounds get to him. His stomach growls, low and dangerous. _Feed me, dude. Come on. What the hell are you waiting for? And none of that fancy schamncy stuff either. _

_I. Want. Meat._

Sam can't remember the last time he ate real food, so he starts the ball rolling with that gynormous roast beef sandwich that could feed two people. It's good, best real food he's had in quite a while. He feels pretty good in this body. Alive and strong in a way that he hadn't felt before, even when he was at Stanford. It was different then. At the back of his mind he always knew he was a freak, but that didn't stop him from trying to fit in, from chasing normal like his life depended on it.

Turns out now normal's the last thing he wants now. Normal's not going to help him, or Dean.

Sam's stomach growls again. His stomach feels like his throat's been cut. He's thirsty too. Didn't notice _that _before. He has a large Coke to go along with the sandwich, and he's well aware that he could do some real damage and still not put a dent in that bankroll inside his knapsack.

He's careful, though. Won't do any good to eat himself into a stupor. He's got to stay sharp, keep his wits about him. Things might get pretty lively later on, from the looks of things.

_Might_ get lively? _Will_ get lively. Sam's stopped believing in the fairness of the universe. He's had that notion knocked out of him, now and forever.

They're all around him now, sitting and standing, silent, staring at him, all around the food court. Sam's positive that he's the only one who can see them, so he pretends he doesn't.

Sam sees dead people, and some of them are possessed. He sees black eyes all around.

_**000**_

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: **_I am really sorry about the long delay in updating this story. Wouldn't blame you if you guys refused to read it. I'm sorry. I have NO excuse.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Dean, Sam or John. And I'm not very happy about it, either.

* * *

_**Chapter 10**_

"That was _it_? That all you _got_?" the demon sneers. Dean's hand tightens around the soft underside of John's throat. All around them the wind picks up in the wall cloud. Lightning flashes. Thunder rolls, deep and hollow, making the ground shake.

John's grin stretches almost from ear to ear, bright and unnatural. Dean doesn't flinch. He shows no sign of disgust, and the demon sighs and shakes John's head.

"No wisecracks? None of that famous Winchester black humor? No? Oh well." The demon throws John's arms out wide. "Go ahead, boychick. Do your worst. I'm pretty sure Papa John won't mind it a bit. He'd tell you not to give yourself up for him. Tell you to take your shot and put us down for good. So go ahead, Deano. Do it. But make it slow, will ya? I wanna hear this old boy scream until his lungs bleed and burst."

They stare at each other hard then, dark gold locked onto pitch black.

Three seconds later, Dean blinks. Dark gold fades back into tired hazel green.

"I thought so," the demon rumbles softly.

Dean's shoulders sag as his fingers loosen from around John's throat. Dean drops his gaze, stares at a point down and to the right of John's left shoulder. His fingertips skate limply over John's chest.

"It's okay," the demon purrs roughly. He gently pats the side of Dean's face. Dean raises his head slowly, looks him in the eye, wearily, suddenly horribly young and vulnerable.

"You never had a chance. You know that, don't you?" It's a good imitation of John's voice, rough and gentle.

Dean shudders at the sound. "Don't hurt him anymore…please…"

"I won't. You do as I say, and I won't."

Dean nods, numbly, dully, and the demon pats the side of his face again. "That's my boy. We're going on a little trip now. You know where. Before we go, though, I want you to do something for me. I want your juice. Your power. It's such a little thing, Dean. You won't be needing it anymore, not where you're going. You'll be with John, and soon little Sammy is gonna be joining you down there too. One big happy family, together again. Won't that be nice?"

Dean hesitates.

The demon leans forward. A tinge of sulfur breath brushes against Dean's right ear. "I could stop John's heart, kiddo. _Right freakin' now."_

Dean takes a shallow breath, raises his right hand, and the air around his fingers pulses dark gold.

"Give it to me, boy."

Dean does.

The demon black eyes swirl with golden color. John's mouth drops open, and his eyes widen. He's lit up from within, black smoke and bright light that streams out of the pores of his skin, his eyes, nose and mouth.

John groans. He slumps forward, leaning heavily against Dean. Dean takes John's weight and straightens up, one arm around John's waist, the other one around John's shoulders. The demon flows out of John's body, a thundercloud of black smoke interspersed with golden light.

"D-Dean?" John croaks.

Dean smiles a little.

The cloud stretches upward, over their heads. A gigantic face forms, hollow black eyes and a cavernous mouth. The demon laughs, a loud booming growl of noise that rivals thunder.

**_"DID YOU REALLY THINK I WAS GOING TO GO BACK DOWN TO HELL, LITTLE MAN? WITH ALL OF THIS…POWER? SO MUCH, AND IT'S MINE, ALL MINE..…"_**

"We're….screwed…" John whispers dazedly. "It lied."

"Yeah," Dean says calmly. "It did."

_**"I PROMISED I'D SEND YOU TWO BACK TO HELL,"**_ the demon booms._** "NEVER SAID YOU'D BE IN ONE PIECE."**_

The demon rushes down towards them, eyes slitted, mouth open, jagged spikes of energy sharp and lethal. As if in answer, the wind picks up, ruffling John and Dean's hair and clothes. The demon roars, loud and triumphant. It's almost on top of them when the light inside the demon cloud pulses dark gold and pinpoints of light speckle its roiling black hide like fireflies.

John lifts his head. If these are his last moments, he'll spend them on his feet. He pushes himself upright, and that's when he senses the onrushing power in the air.

He recognizes it.

Recognizes Dean.

Four years old, giggling when John ruffled his hair.

Running through the house, happy, excited. "I'm gonna have a baby brother!"

Pastor Jim's place. After the...afterwards. Climbing up into the cot with John. Solemn, with a little boy's wide eyes. "It's okay, Dad. It's okay."

The points of light expand, punch through the cloudskin, and the demon's eyes widen. Its mouth gapes open as it shakes its head from side to side in disbelief.

"Uh…Dean?

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Is this a good thing?"

Dean nods, the corners of his mouth upturned in a slight smile.

The points of light, so much like fireflies, tumble through the air, and the black smoke of the demon turns grey, then dead white, as the power rushes home.

Back to Dean, where it belongs.

Dean opens himself up to it, and his skin and eyes fairly glow for a moment, from his head down to his boots, as the fireflies and points of light sink beneath his skin.

A light breeze swirls around them. Everything stops.

The wind, the lightning, and thunder. The wall clouds continue their slow, lazy turn, silent now.

Tendrils of white smoke hang in the air. The back of John's skull prickles slightly as the demon sends out its dying declaration, a faint unwelcome whisper.

Dean hugs John to him, listens to his Dad's heartbeat, a sound he never thought he'd hear ever again.

Dean smiles again, broader this time. "Hi, Dad."

"Hey, kiddo," John says softly.

_**000000**_

_I'll be damned,_ Sam thinks to himself. He watches the spirits drift and float above the food court, then he scowls darkly when he realizes what he said.

Whoa. Poor choice of words.

He's seen this kind of thing all his life, just not in broad open daylight. Not among the living like this. As the child of a hunter Sam knows that the dead can be anywhere, everywhere. He never realized that even while he was living life as a hunter, there were some things he was better off not seeing, twenty four/seven.

Like this.

Sam drinks his soda, and he tries not to stare as the ghost of this high school girl stands there staring banefully at the five cheerleaders sitting at the table nearby.

He knows why she hates them. They're everything she wasn't in life. They're athletic. She wasn't. She had to work at being popular, and Sam knows somehow that she wasn't very good at it.

Her pale skin is grey around the edges, and the bluish tinge around her mouth and mouth is more solid than the rest of her. Her long blonde hair hangs dull and lifeless around her face. She's still dressed in the clothes they buried her in, a simple navy blue suit.

Her feet are bare. Sam can still see the marks where she slashed her wrists.

Sam leaves what's left of the roast beef sandwich, gets up and busses his tray. Several of the black eyes track him, their eyes alternating from pitch black to grey, brown, or hazel, as they hide behind their newspapers, their magazines.

Sam doesn't react. He shoulders his backpack, feels the familiar weight of the gun inside. He could duck inside the men's room, go into a stall and pull it out, put it in his back waistband underneath his jacket, but he has a bad feeling about that. They'd follow him inside, and the idea of being cornered in some men's room just doesn't appeal.

So he heads for the street, almost lazily, just another tall, cute black kid out for the day at the mall. Sam recalls Dad telling him that one of the gifts God gave man was the ability to bless things with simple prayers. A good idea is a good idea, so Sam stops at this little kiosk store and buys four tall bottles of water.

At $5.50 a bottle, that's some expensive holy water.

_**000000**_

John takes one look at the silent figure on the bed and his knees buckle. He barely feels Dean's solid grip on his elbow, holding him up. John barely feels the chair that Dean puts underneath him, guides him into.

"Oh God…Sam," John whispers hoarsely. "Sammy…" He sits there, and he forgets to breathe but he does it anyway, grief squeezing his chest closed, the air in his lungs razor sharp.

Sam looks like he's asleep. John could fool himself, pretend that's all, but there's no rise and fall of Sam's chest, no breath sounds. Sam's perfect, frozen in time. John wants to reach out, brush his youngest son's hair away from his forehead ---

_---kid needs a haircut ---_

But if he touches Sam, Sam's skin will be cold, lifeless, and John knows he just couldn't stand _that._

Dean's hand squeezes John's shoulder, firm at first, then John feels this tremor ripple through Dean's fingers.

Dean deflates. He sinks down to the floor beside John, sits cross-legged just like he has countless times in his life, when he was younger mostly. John glances at the back of his eldest son's head, and he sees those broad sturdy shoulders tremble inside his brown leather jacket.

"I…I couldn't save him, y' know? I tried." Dean's voice cracks as he bows his head, pulls a great hitching lungful of air into his chest. He shakes his head. "Dad, I tried. I did. But…I can make this right. I can. I'll get Sam back. Mom too. I'll get them back." Dean angles his head to the side just then, and John sees his eyes spark bright gold.

"We'll live where ever we want." Dean whispers. "Nobody will take anything away from us anymore. Nobody. We all gave enough. We've suffered enough. Not gonna allow it. Not anymore."

_He's my son,_ John thinks to himself. _Doesn't matter how he got this way. Doesn't matter what he's done. _

John sees Dean standing untouched in the middle of a roaring inferno, and the fire softly caresses his skin with a lover's touch.

The demon's dying declaration echoes faintly inside John's head, before it fades away forever:_ You'll be the end of him, John-boy. Your precious son. Heaven and hell won't be able to touch him, but you, you'll bring him to his knees._

_**000000**_

_**TBC later on this week**_


End file.
